


amas veritas

by rosytonics



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: (And Spells Accidentally Gone Right), (twitches???), Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Bev and Richie are twins, Halloween, M/M, Murder Mystery, Practical Magic AU, Spells Gone Wrong, and witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-15 19:08:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21022910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosytonics/pseuds/rosytonics
Summary: Beverly picked up the bowl and held it out for Richie as he dropped the petals in. She studied his face with a smile. “I thought you never wanted to fall in love.”Richie cleared his throat. He adjusted his glasses, and then his hair, and adjusted his glasses again before sitting down next to her. “That’s the point, Bevvie…” He stared into the bowl and gave it a shake. The petals bounced together like a tossed salad. He did it again, just to delay meeting his sister’s inevitable gaze. He hated the happiness in her eyes, and he hated himself for crushing it. “The guy I dreamed up doesn’t exist.”(Or, thePractical MagicAU that no one asked for)





	amas veritas

**Author's Note:**

> hello!!!! (.❛ ᴗ ❛.) this is my first fic for IT and i'm so excited to share this au with everyone! i've been getting into the halloween mood, and practical magic is one of my favorite movies! the sisters in the movie have a kind of bev/rich dynamic, and i really love their friendship and AUs where they're brother and sister!!! 
> 
> you don't have to watch the movie to understand the fic, because i'll be following the plot pretty closely. but it's really cute, so i'd totally recommend it !! if you HAVE seen the movie, then you probably see where this going. 
> 
> i'm hoping to get this done by halloween, and it'll be pretty short! 
> 
> please let me know what you guys think! ♡

This is a love story, and, like many before it, it lacks a happy ending in the conventional sense. That’s not because this love story takes place in Maine (though, if you have recently moved to Maine with the intention of falling in love,_ good luck_), or because the lovers of the story are both men, or even because of a random, coincidental sequence of events. Not even the the unexpected and unpredictable motions of the universe are to blame for the tragic conclusion to Richie Tozier’s marriage.

To find the cause of this sad ending, it would be wise to go to the beginning—before Richie Tozier, and before his doomed husband, and before their unlucky town of Derry, Maine was even named.

This is a love story, and like many before it, it lacks a happy ending in the conventional sense, and begins with a witch’s curse. 

For the pasttwo hundred years or so, the Toziers have been blamed for every single thing that has ever gone wrong in Derry; Derry had previously been known as Beavere, as its thriving beaver pelt market and trapping industry earned the small, coastal village its place on the map. Despite the prosperous beaver population, the town was riddled with illness, famine, infidelity, and a high child mortality rate. Maria Tozier, due to her proficiency with herbs, late-night escapades, and shocking good looks, was more or less thrown under the wagon every time something in Derry went wrong. 

Poor Thomasin, only sixteen years old, passed away from pox and boils on her wedding night? Oh, it must’ve been that _witch_, Maria Tozier! 

The Browne’s farm bore no crops this year? And their _cows _perished? Oh, it must’ve been that _witch_, Maria Tozier! 

Samuel Preston was caught by his wife in the dead of night, _copulating _with another woman against the hollowed tree at the far end of his property? Okay, that one _was _Maria Tozier, but the point still stands that she was often blamed for events that had nothing to do with her.

The townspeople were wrong about Maria when it came to her involvement in droughts, and lost babies, and mysterious plagues. They were also wrong about her dancing naked in the dead of night—the men of the village were _particularly_ fixated on this rumor—and about her secret toad face that she kept hidden beneath a beautiful mask (she was simply _pretty_, and that alone was enough to make women want her dead). However, there was one thing they had right. 

Maria Tozier was a witch, and the very first in her family. From her, there grew a long line of Tozier witches, all women but three, of which Richie Tozier and his sister Beverly were the most recent generation. Their mother, Maggie Tozier, often told them this story at bedtime or supper, so they would never forget the woman who gave them their gifts. 

And their curse. 

She was sentenced to be hanged, two hundred years before Richie and Beverley’s birth. The townspeople were very pleased about this. However, as the noose hung about her neck and the gulls cried overhead, Maria Tozier leapt from the platform, and freed herself from the rope’s hold with nothing but magic, and rage. According to local records found in the Derry Public Library, the townspeople were _not _very pleased about this, and scattered like seeds in the wind. 

She was banished—to the uninhabited land on the other side of the Kenduskeag Stream, known simply as _The Barrens_. There, with her unborn daughter growing inside her belly (who would soon become Rebecca Tozier, the second Tozier witch), she waited for her lover to come for her. She waited for months, living off of herbs and oysters and foraged fruits, through the summer and the autumn and the winter.

He never came. 

In a moment of despair, of the deepest agony, of the rage of a woman abandoned, Maria Tozier made a choice—one that would determine the fates of all other Toziers to come. Sobbing, gripping her chest and weeping through the labor pains, she cast a spell. She intended only to cast it upon herself, to liberate her heart from its ache. She vowed that no part of her would ever have to suffer the soul-crushing torture of a broken heart. Not her face, nor her hands, nor her feet, nor her bosom or belly or hips would ever again suffer through love. 

Evidently, she seemed to forget that Rebecca was still a part of her as well. 

Upon casting that spell, Maria planted a seed, which soon grew into a curse. 

May Heaven and Hell alike have mercy on any man who dared to love a Tozier woman.

(She had not taken into consideration the idea that a man could love anything else.) 

And thus, the women of the Tozier family suffered through the curse of loving a man who would die spontaneously, shortly after giving her children who would continue the family line, which consisted almost exclusively of women. There were two male witches before Richie (and yes, male witches are also called witches; they have always only ever been called witches)—Carmine, born in 1891, and his son, Alphonse, born in 1925. Both of them went on to marry lovely women, and both brought forth at least one daughter. However, upon their marriage, their wives became Tozier women, and the curse continued. 

Carmine Tozier was struck by a street trolley in 1929. 

Aphonse Tozier was lost at war in 1945. 

And Richie Tozier was currently twelve years old. 

_1988\. _

“That sucks balls,” he told his mother as she recounted the age-old story at the dinner table, “So if I marry a woman, I’m gonna _die?!_” He scowled down at his roast chicken and stabbed at it with his fork. “Why the fuck does this family hate men?!” 

Maria Tozier’s ancient curse did not impact her descendants in such a way that it gave them foul mouths, rife and overflowing with dirty language. 

That was something that Richie did to himself. 

He tossed the fork onto his plate with a clatter. “It’s so stupid. Is that why you don’t talk about our dad? Did he die?” 

Maggie blowed on a spoonful of mashed potatoes to cool them. “Well…” After watching her mother suffer the same fate as _her_ mother, and **_her_** mother before her, Maggie Tozier gave herself a simple mission: to have children, but avoid falling in love while doing it. “There’s not much to talk about.” In all honesty, she wouldn’t even be able to pick Beverly and Richie’s father out of a lineup. He was just one of the many, _many _nameless and faceless men that crawled in and out of her tent at a music festival in upstate Vermont back in 1975. Hell, for all she knew, their father could be Bob Dylan, or Donovan, or even Kris Kristofferson. She didn’t remember him, she didn’t love him, and that probably saved his life. “He was a guy, and he was nice, and he’s not a part of our lives, so.” She reached across the table with her spoon and poked at the cooked carrots on her daughter’s plate. “Eat your carrots, Bevvie.” 

If the Tozier twins were cosmic bodies, Beverley would be the sun. She was bright and blazing, with a shock of short orange hair and a bright, warm smile. The world seemed to revolve around her—when shecomplained about the rain, it ceased, and her favorite flowers bloomed even in the dead of winter. As far as she was concerned, there was no dream out of her reach; if she wanted something, she needed only reach out and grab it. While her brother watched warily from the cliffside that dropped into the deep, green waters of the Kenduskeag, Beverly simply shed her dress, took a running start, and _jumped. _

Richie, unlike his sister was not particularly soft or luminous. He was the blue-glowing moon, constantly waxing and waning from states of mania to depression—sometimes perfectly full and content and other times empty and restless. His skin lacked his sister’s cinnamon freckles and warm tones; rather, his face was all valleyed cheekbones and smooth, waxy plains. He could be reckless, impulsive, constantly seeking stimulation whenever his spirit seemed to shrink into a sad little crescent. And sometimes, he vanished completely, locking himself in his bedroom for days with books that he could barely focus on reading. His sharp tongue made him excellent at casting spells, while his sister’s talents lied more in foresight and divination. 

“You’re going to fall in love,” she warned, smiling, as she nudged Richie’s foot under the table, “When you’re older. I saw it.” 

“What?! Gross! No way!” Richie hunched over his plate. “I’m not! I won’t.” _I won’t_, he said again to himself, _I won’t, I won’t, I won’t. _He’d never fall in love with a woman! He was surrounded by women all the time, and sometimes he could barely stand it! He glanced up from his plate with a sliver of a smile. “Am I handsome when I get older, at least?” 

Bev’s grin deepened. She pushed her carrots around on her plate. “You grow into your looks.” 

Richie snorted. “What the fuck does _that_ mean?” 

Whatever. He stabbed at his chicken again. There was no way he was going to die mysteriously (and young) just because he fell in love with some stupid girl!

…

_1990._

By the time Richie Tozier turned fourteen, he realized that falling in love with girls wasn’t going to be a problem. 

Richie didn’t know his name, but the boy liked to play_ Street Fighter_ at the movie theater. They spent the whole summer in front of that screen, fingers slamming rapidly against the buttons until one of them won and they decided to go for the best out of three. The best out of three became the best out of five, and the boy always found an extra token in his pocket when he got home, both a question and a promise: _tomorrow(?)_ He had blonde hair, and a nice smile, and after they high-fived, Richie felt his hand tingle for hours after. At night, before he fell asleep, Richie held that hand to his heart and felt the tingling crawl all the way through him. 

For the first time, the moon glowed pink. 

He showed up at Richie’s front gate one morning, with a group of other kids that he’d seen around town. They all probably went to school together; Derry had one elementary school and one high school, and every child in town went there—save for Richie and Bev, who, to avoid a childhood rife with bullying and misery, received their lessons from their mom at home. Richie had been in the garden with his sister when the mob of kids arrived, on their knees and elbows-deep in the dirt, harvesting dandelion roots for tea. 

“Hey! Witch!” 

The voice was warm and familiar, but the words made Richie’s heart flinch. 

He wiped the back of his hand on his forehead, smudging just a little bit of dirt in its wake, and adjusted his glasses on his nose. “Oh. Hey!” Bev gave him an anxious gaze but Richie shrugged it off. He knew this guy. This guy was his friend. He crossed the garden in long strides and only when he brushed arms with the boy from the opposite side of the gate did he stop. “You brought a lot of friends!” He waved at them. “Hi!” 

“Richie,” Bev warned, placing down her trowel. 

The mob of kids didn’t wave back. They didn’t even smile. 

  
Richie’s eyes wilted, but the grin didn’t falter. “Hey…how did you know where I live? Are you here to hang out? I have a lot of comics we can read”— 

“Everyone knows this is the _witch’s_ house,” spat someone from the back of the crowd. Richie knew that voice, too. 

It was the voice of Henry Bowers, the sheriff’s son. He was just as mean as his old man, and sometimes stole his knife to carve obscenities into public benches and bridges. Sometimes they were swastikas, or historically mean words about people of other races. He’d carved _KILL ALL WITCHES _into a bench at Memorial Park—and in a stall at his high school bathroom, he’d taken a Sharpie and written _RICHIE TOZIER SUCKS FLAMER COCK_, and _QUEERS BURN IN HELL_. Richie had never been into the high school, and probably never would. But if you told him that the graffiti was there, it probably wouldn’t surprise him. 

Bowers pushed his way to the front of the mob and asked, “Did you put a love spell on my cousin, you little fucking fairy?” He gripped _Street Fighter _boy’s arm tightly, tight enough to make him wince—and Richie felt something hot and angry bubble up inside of him. “Huh?! _Did you?!_” 

“What? I”— Richie frantically tried to meet the boy’s eyes, but he kept diverting them; and still, Richie chased his gaze. “No! And! Technically! That’s not even something that I’m allowed to _do_ because my mom said that love spells are unethi”— Something hit Richie’s face hard and fast. The bridge of his glasses cracked and he stumbled back dizzily before dropping to the ground. His blurry eyes saw a fist-shaped rock sitting in the grass next to his head, and his ringing ears picked up a shrill mantra of _WITCH, WITCH, WITCH, WITCH! _

And then, he passed out. 

“Richie!” Bev scrambled across the yard and rushed to his side. She held his face in her small hands and gave his cheeks a light slap. “Come on…!” Nothing. He was out cold. Pain blossomed between her eyes. An invisible drawstring pulled her lips into an angry pucker and her cheeks burned with anger—and with magic. Jaw set and hands shaking, Beverly grabbed the rock in her fist and surged to her feet. “Hey!” The mob of kids stepped back. 

All but Bowers, who was sixteen and all talk, and wanted all the other kids to know that he wasn’t scared of no witch and her fruity brother. If he had Bev’s gift of foresight, or really, even a _normal _amount of foresight at all, he would have known that this was a bad idea and stepped away. 

But he didn’t, and that earned him a face-full of rock. 

If her brother was the moon, then Beverly Tozier was the sun. She was beautiful, and spirited, and life-giving. She glowed. 

And she would leave you with a nasty burn if you pissed her off. 

…

Richie Tozier survived the rock to the face, with nothing but a bruised forehead and bruised pride. The next evening, Beverly found him in the conservatory. A single tall, white candle flickered in the darkness; it dripped wax onto the yellowed pages of the family’s Grimoire. 

Richie sat hunched over his journal—the black and white composition book that he used to write his jokes and his spells.

“He’ll hear my call from a mile away.” His dark hair poured in ringlets down his forehead and he shook it out of his eyes as he read. “He will whistle my favorite song.” It was “Just Like Heaven” by the Cure, and Richie played it on his walkman every night and imagined the lyrics with different pronouns. The conservatory was filled with flowers and herbs of different shapes and sizes and colors, all with various properties for healing. Never harming. That was against the rules. Magic was only for good people to use for good reasons, and Richie very desperately wanted to be _good_. He held his journal open in one hand as he plucked a white flower from its stem. “He’ll like comics, but never the good ones.” 

Beverly, already in her pajamas, stopped in the doorway and leaned against it. “What are you doing, Richie?” 

“Summoning up a true love spell.” He placed the flower into a wooden bowl sitting on the table and traveled to the next necessary herb. “I found it in Mom’s book. It’s called _Amas Veritas._” It translated directly from latin to _true love_, which perhaps made it a little redundant. But the spell was old, and and spells that were old were often more powerful. Richie eyed the white roses and carefully pulled a petal from each one. “He can flip pancakes in the air.” 

Bev stepped into the conservatory, thoughtfully stroking her fingers over petals and leaves as she circled the room. “Hm.” She sat down at the table and smoothed out her nightgown over her knees. She was smug; she couldn’t wait to fall in love, and always hoped for the same happiness for her brother. After yesterday, she thought he’d never want to look at a boy again—and now, he was wishing for one. 

She saw him in her dreams—older, having grown into his looks. She never wanted to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he’d grow up to be handsome, but he would. She never saw who he’d fall in love with, just him, smiling. Happy. Free from the doubts that ate him up until he became a new moon, dark and sad and out of sight. 

Richie yanked a snowdrop off its stem and tossed it into the bowl over his shoulder. “He’ll be marvelously kind, but he’ll have a dirty mouth like I do.” He snatched a cluster of white browallia blossoms (known by florists and lovers alike as _Endless Flirtation_), and they too fell into the bowl. “He’ll be allergic to cashews.” Finally, Richie tore three white petals from a single daisy. “And he’ll only ever break one bone, in his left arm, on his fourteenth birthday.” 

Beverly picked up the bowl and held it out for Richie as he dropped the petals in. She studied his face with a smile. “I thought you never wanted to fall in love.” 

Richie cleared his throat. He adjusted his glasses, and then his hair, and adjusted his glasses again before sitting down next to her. “That’s the point, Bevvie…” He stared into the bowl and gave it a shake. The petals bounced together like a tossed salad. He did it again, just to delay meeting his sister’s inevitable gaze. He hated the happiness in her eyes, and he hated himself for crushing it. “The guy I dreamed up doesn’t exist.” Richie sighed, and looked at Bev. He looked at her, even though it hurt to watch the hope crack and fall away from her face the way crust flaked off of a pie when you first cut into it. “If he doesn’t exist, then I’ll never have to fucking _feel _like this again.” 

“Richie.” Beverly reached for his arm and squeezed it. 

“I have to do this, okay?” He tore himself away from her. Their eyes met and something sad danced between them on a fragile wire. Richie stared back down at the bowl. His head still hurt, and his heart felt worse. “I _have_ to.” He didn’t know if he was telling the flowers, or Bevvie, or himself, but saying it again made him feel better. 

Her hands wrapped around his as they held the bowl.

“Okay.” Her lips brushed one of his cheeks, and then the other. They were soft and warm, like a summer’s afternoon meant for lazing in the sunshine. “Let me do it with you.” 

The moon, her eye full and watchful, observed the two young witches with fascination as they carried the bowl out to the balcony. She had been eyeing this family for a very long time, ever since Maria Tozier first called upon her power in the dead of night. She watched as Richie held the bowl up towards her as an offering, a prayer. Very interesting indeed. 

He closed his eyes to her and the petals slowly began to rise. They floated above the bowl before taking off, crawling and dancing across the sky towards the tortoise-shell craters of the waiting moon. She accepted his wishes one by one. Good ears, a favorite song, a broken arm; a foul mouth, poor taste in comics—a talent for flipping pancakes. She held these wishes in her glow, and Beverly watched the petals leave the bowl until it was empty. 

There. 

It was done. 

…

Somewhere, underneath the glow of the same watchful moon, a very particular birthday boy was reading comic books in a hammock in his backyard, listening to The Cure on his walkman. 

His mother called his name, told him that it was time to come inside. 

He closed the comic and placed it with the others, and then tucked all of them under his arm. In his haste to scramble from the hammock, he fell—and landed on the ground with a shriek and the telltale crack of a broken bone. 

“**_FUCK!_**” 


End file.
